bernard, Uncategorized

Bernard and the Shit Stain

Where I used to write “student,” I now write “slave.” As a “slave,” you will find me seated within the home of a Miami Mamacita on the third chair from the left in the second dining room from the right. I am assistant slave, otherwise known as Intern, to Mamacita, and am in charge of doing lots of things I am not qualified to do. My superior is a 19 year-old Mamacita-ita, a smaller version of the main Mama-we’ll call her Ita. She sits to my left and stares over my shoulder as I carefully insert pages into a manual. Her jobs include dealing with social media, scheduling stuff, and remaining as firmly chained to the Mamacita as her small wrists will permit. At this table, I sit on a chair with a puke green cushion filled with what feels like a bag of poorly diced onions. Sometimes it serves as a nice, uneven ass massage-other times it just reminds me that this is not how puke-green seat cushions should feel. I’ve considered making a small slit in the cushion while Mamacita and Ita are out of the room, but was unable to find a proper knife in time. “Hahaha you crack me up, baby!” screeches Mamacita. She assumed I was going to get my spoon to consume my daily mound of peanut butter. “Hah..I…yeah I love my peanuts!” *facepalm*

This particular day, I was on my period. I made extra sure to put in the XL tampon with the green label instead of the slender toothpick of a purple one. For hours on end, I sat metaphorically chained to my chair, occasionally getting up to pee, grab a spoon for peanut butter, retrieve additional glasses of water, or take secret shits in her second bathroom. During these long hours, occasionally stuck two fingers underneath my unfortunately white skort to make sure my green friend was doing its job. My Mamas were under the impression that, because I often sat silently and worked with a look of focus and dedication brushed across my face, I had no interest in doing anything but that. They gave me document after document to re-format, correct for grammar, and turn into the pages of a presentation. Mamacita’s 15 year-old daughter giggled each time more nonsensical tasks were added to my teetering pile. We will call her Marissa. I grumble in a tone low enough to be confused for their bull dog’s snotty snores. As I worked, a tiny flower-shaped speaker projectile vomited Popular music in my direction.  Realizing I was about to lose it, Marissa tried to change the music, but unsuccessfully, as her mom changed it back each time. “What is that goldie-oldie-moldy bull crap, my baby boo??”  That little flower was about to meet my angry, bloody ass cheeks.

Bathroom trip number one and I’m still doing well. I begin to urinate, making sure to distribute the pressure so that the tampon will stay in. I wipe my butt, pull up my skort, and tuck in my t-shirt. Good to go. Outside the bathroom I notice Marissa futzing with a green seat cushion. “Do you know what’s in those?!” I ask. “I was gonna cut one open to see but my mom’s everywhere,” Marissa tells me. “Mama y mama!!” calls Mamacita. We run back to the living room to sit in our assigned seats once again. Ita sneers in my direction and whispers, “you pregnant or something, peein’ all dat time?” Instead of growling in her direction, my stomach makes a horrific noise that is thankfully confused for another one of puppy’s nasal grumbles.

As my day comes to a close, Mamacita sits next to me to slow down my computer with some software. “Flyers” blah, blah, “pink and pink!” blah blah, ok I have to pee. “Erm, excuse me.” I receive a glare from Ita, suspicious of my pregnancy. “I need to use the…” As soon as I stand up and swivel out of my chair, I swiftly plant my ass back in my seat. The green, onion filled seat cushion proudly displays a massive, dark stain on its edge, the edge my ass was so recently perched upon. Marissa begins to open her mouth and I “accidentally” knee her in the nose. “Oh, gosh I’m so…*you better shut your whiney little trip, ya hear*? I get up slowly, flip the chair cushion, edge my way sideways to the bathroom, Spongebob style, and bend over to check my behind out in the mirror. Green ruboff stain? Check. Blood? None! I open my skort to scope out the scene and come across what appears to be the undergarments of a lady who has just broken her water. My underwear is not only soaked, but so is my white skort, and now, poor Mamacita’s onion cushion. Maybe Ita was onto something with the whole pregnancy accusations. After stuffing half a roll of toilet paper in my underpants, I run back out to find Mama away from her seat. I take the cushion, pour some water on it to make it look like a water drip, and, before stuffing it behind the sofa, slit the corner open with the back of my peanut butter spoon.

My metaphorical slave chains rattle as I take a step outside my denoted boundaries. Still a slave? Always. But the cushions, I made them mine. 


Oh, and they were stuffed with a mixture of beads and hastily torn lumps of a foam mattress topping. Where am I?



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